The lesson that changed my life

Spectator

a day ago

Ávila, Spain
At school I wasn't much good at anything – until, that is, I had the good fortune to land in Mr Hodges's French set. It wasn't just the ten words of vocabulary and the irregular verb we learnt every day, it was the whole structured Hodges approach which gave me confidence, showing how the apparently unmanageable job of learning a language could be broken down into small, achievable tasks.
Since Mr H also taught Spanish O-level, when the time came I opted for that rather than German. The scenes of Spanish life in the textbook fascinated me; they were only black and white line drawings but they promised something romantic that I knew I'd never find in cold, wet 1970s Birmingham. I pored over those pictures.
A-level Spanish, including literature, history and culture, deepened the attraction. Eager to put my book learning to the test, I started my Easter 1974 study trip to Seville by ordering a café con leche in the first bar I saw. Previously I'd only known instant coffee; after two cups of the real stuff I was fully on board with Hemingway's description of Spain as 'unspoilt… and… unbelievably wonderful'. Soon the Moorish palaces, the storks wheeling in the sky, the orange trees, fountains and palms in the patios, the street cafés and the voluptuously beautiful women had sealed the deal.
In Somerset Maugham's story 'The Happy Man' a young doctor asks the author if he should throw up his job in Camberwell and go to live in Spain. The author replies: 'Your whole future is concerned: you must decide for yourself. But this I can tell you: if you don't want money but are content to earn just enough to keep body and soul together, then go. For you will lead a wonderful life.' So that's what he does. Years later the doctor, now married to a beautiful Spanish woman, declares: 'I wouldn't exchange the life I've had with that of any king in the world.'
And that's very much my story too. After Spanish at university I also tried the respectable job in London but found the pull of Spain irresistible. I've now been living in Ávila, central Spain, married to a beautiful Spanish woman for over 40 years. I found I could earn enough teaching at a second-rate – OK, third-rate – university to pay the bills. (Incidentally, for the academically competent but professionally unambitious, 'lecturer at a mediocre university' is a career path well worth considering.)
Spain's poor-quality universities (the best ranks 149th in the world, the rest far lower) are a small part of a much bigger problem: public life. Spain has fallen sharply both in the World Bank's governance indicators and in Transparency International's Corruption Perceptions Index. And the bureaucracy, 'conceived by Gogol and scripted by Kafka', explains why Spain was recently ranked 114th out of 141 countries for burden of government regulation.
You can take the boy out of England but you can't take England out of the boy
Meanwhile the politicians themselves are hilariously bad. With the brief exception of the transition from dictatorship to democracy, Spain hasn't had a decent government for well over 200 years. It's not just their headline-grabbing corruption and chicanery, their laziness, incompetence, the infantile insults they hurl at their opponents and the childish lies they tell – Spanish politicians' everyday pronouncements are also a constant source of entertainment. Recently, for example, the deputy prime minister solemnly informed a startled nation that the principle of presumption of innocence is a disgrace. When somebody told her that it's, you know, a cornerstone of democratic freedom, she tried to pretend that she'd never suggested otherwise.
Spaniards have only themselves to blame since they take little interest in the doings of their politicians (until, that is, the nation is without electricity for hours on end or 228 people die avoidable deaths in a flash flood). But all the energy that they aren't expending on civic engagement is being channelled into celebrating life with their friends, neighbours and family.
Supported by the unconditional love of their families, Spaniards are well-adjusted, altruistic and happy in their own skins. As the novelist Stanley Weyman observed over a century ago: 'The Spaniard is a gentleman and gentleman-like regards all men as his equals… A man in rags will address a duke with self-respect as well as with respect. He does not know what it is to be awkward in any presence, but will offer a cigarette to a marquis or a millionaire, and accept one in return with equal nonchalance and affability. It is a fine feature.' Similarly Orwell celebrated Spaniards' 'straightforwardness and generosity… [their] real largeness of spirit, which I have met with again and again in the most unpromising circumstances.' That's certainly been my experience.
When people ask me why I don't apply for Spanish nationality, I say 'Because I'm not Spanish, I'm English'. And when they ask if I miss England, the answer is 'no'. I go back often enough to see family and friends (and the Test matches) but more importantly I carry a lot of England inside me: you can take the boy out of England but you can't take England out of the boy. Formative years in England followed by adult life in Spain is a combination that's worked fine for me.
Accepting his Prince of Asturias award in 2011, Leonard Cohen spoke of his great debt to Spain; a voice had been telling him, he said, 'you are an old man and you have not said thank you.' He was right: there comes a time when you should express your gratitude. So muchas gracias, Spain – and muchas gracias, Mr Hodges.